Waiting for justice

Stories and News No. 1149
 

Let’s go to Chingola, Zambia.
In short, Africa.
We have been waiting for justice for years, but you may also read this time as a river that becomes as angry as it is suffering. In the same way sounds what concerns us most, the Kafue, whose waters are indispensable for the survival of the villages.
Some of you used to say, often and by chance, let's help them abroad, at their country.
Forgive us, but it took us a while to understand what you meant by let’s help them.
The truth is that some of you, citizens of nations oppressed by the amount of stuff, rather than misery, they are always in a hurry and forget words and heart’s pieces on the road.
Well, we know that the latter must be strengthened by practice and like any body part that involuntary pulses with life, where it is neglected, it shrinks.
In this way you risk to lose something of value on the street.
In your case, a fundamental fragment, an information that we had to guess at our expense.
Let's help them to die abroad, at their country.
That was the correct translation, right?
In any case, words are important, you also say.
Of course, but some are much more. For many they are all you have and if you're not careful, your everything will be stolen under your eyes with a… words game, that’s right.
This is how colonialism has become exporting and relocation, investing and expanding.
Nevertheless, in short, you might also read it as let’s help them to die at their home.
However, those of us still alive and determined to resist the only real invasion worthy of the name have raised their heads and brought the bill to the false friends who came from afar.
Like the British mining company Vedanta Resources, which is responsible for pollution on our land and lives.

It is not the first time that this happens. In this continent long ago we have begun the fight to recover the natural stolen goods. But this time, in April, if the Court express will act on our favor, it will create a unique precedent.
In fact, if our request will be satisfied by the Appeal, the trial that sees some of the vampires of our natural richness imputed will take place in the UK.
Here's what a story can suggest. And here is what we can get, where we write and read it using the real meaning of the words, contaminated as the conscience of those who take advantage of them.
In this way, “let’s help them (to die) at their home” gets its deserved counterweight to restore true balance.
Help us to make and bring justice at your home.
So that you all could see how you’re really helping us…

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We have a clandestine on board

We have a clandestine on board

A short story by

Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher

We have a clandestine on board.
So they screamed out loud as soon as they saw me.
A clandestine, that's what I am to them.
Me, a clandestine? How did we get to this?
I tried, I really tried to explain myself, to implore them, to make them understand that they condemned me to certain death, but they didn’t want to hear my reasons.
They lifted me and escorted me out of the ship about to set sail.
"The boat is so big, it's huge!" I said. "Don’t tell me it's a matter of space."
They did not, in fact.
It's just a personal thing.
They just don’t want with me.
"That's racism," I shouted, and they laughed, as expected.
Come on, I admit, I was waiting for that.
However, as they took me down from the boat I was able to see who had instead been welcomed without discussion.
"What kind of people are you" I exclaimed with all my heart.
"I saw you raised cats and dogs, and even pigs, horses and oxen, pheasants and lizards, even rats and scorpions! Since when have we become less important than the beasts?"
"Not we", they specified. "Just you."
That is, me, to worth less than an animal.
Because I'm a clandestine, they added.
A true one, they have specified.
"Me? Is that a joke?" I screamed in a hysterical voice that aroused their further laughter.
So, given the danger of the situation I was in, I tried to convince them at any cost.

"Please, let me stay," I begged. "I will do anything, I’ll clean the bridge, wash your clothes, shine your shoes, cook for you and do all the humble and tiring, degrading and dangerous jobs you won’t do."
Want you know what they answered?
They said everyone here does everything, including the captain.
So, I did my big voice and asked to talk to him.
So, they satisfied me and the boss arrived.
That is, she has arrived.
A girl, young but with deep and serious eyes, who has known the harshness of life.
I was frightened and the look which she was watching me with was able to instantly extinguish any attempt to assert, if not my reasons, at least my desire for survival.
"We all want to survive", she said.
In the meantime I saw all the passengers appearing over the shoulders that unlike me had been welcomed.
So they started to stare at me with a mixture of compassion and anger, curiosity and even satisfaction. But the thing that left me breathless is that they were of an impressive heterogeneity. It seemed to admire a human rainbow, with so many shades of complexions, multiple looks, as well as the color of the eyes and the hairstyles.
Then, I made a last attempt.
"You don’t only have animals, with you! Why they can stay, and I don’t?"
"Because during all their lives they have been travelers and you have done nothing but prevent their arrival," replied the woman named Noah, before finally getting me off the new ark. "You were and always will be the only clandestine aboard humanity."
Well, I'm here now, when the waves are coming. But I will stop them, I will raise a border, or rather, a wall, I will be the final bulwark, you won’t pass, this is my land...
Fade, the end.

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The Most Italian Wanted

Stories and News No. 1148
 

Here we are.
Everything is accomplished.
I know, it's not the first time it happens.
And when it takes, it does.
That is, where there is a damned need for victories to be celebrated and illuminated on the middle of the popular scene, with the irrepressible, governmental desire to distract citizens from bad thoughts, we cannot ignore the most greedy opportunities.
Well, the adjective is very fitting, because it’s like being at one of those dinners at the end of the year, where things didn’t go well at all, far from it, but there is nothing better than a big binge and, above all, a nice drink to fall asleep and forget.
At least for one night.
Nonetheless, we are here to tell stories and to those who, like myself, live in the perennial search for suggestive narratives, the eventuality is equally unavoidable.
Therefore, let's go back to the main picture.
We are at the Ciampino Airport.
The man is about to arrive.
By now, his appearance is taken for granted.
It's morning, it's sunny and winter is the setting for the great event.
Camera flashes are waiting anxiously, just as the fingertips are quivering, looking for the usual historical snapshot to sell to the highest bidder.
Because the guy is incredibly wanted.
We can also say that, more than ever at this time, he is the most wanted.
In fact, from the moment that the new Italian government took the office in the country, his name is everyday on the top news.
This is his time, the definitive one.
He dreamed of it for decades, between one nightmare and another.
Who knows how many times he have watch it under his eyelids, in favor of the only spectator granted.
In short, his conscience.
Since, despite appearances can resoundingly contradict me, he will have it somewhere, even if we cannot clearly know in what conditions it might be.
Because let's say it without delay, let’s ban the misunderstandings, in order that nobody could say that I have subversive intentions, or even partial forgiving views.
The shame of his actions precedes him and it doesn’t deserve any clemency.
His name is associated with people and ideas of life and values that sound disturbing, to say the least.
Much of what concerns him is a cumbersome burden on his person, even before any judgment is issued.
The organization which he is not scandalized at all to be part of it’s stained by unspeakable crimes. And it will certainly not be the complicity and protection of some foreign leader or country that will succeed in making the verdict of History less severe.
Yet, despite the shadows on the biography of the infamous protagonist of this tale there are admirers and supporters in my country.
Because Italy is made like that, today.
It is a nation largely composed of fans and eternal teenagers, creatures without memory and unconscious, inebriated with ignorance and devoted to the adoration of the random guy exalted by the main lights.
No matter who, let alone what he did yesterday.
It's only today, now, that matters, and hurry up to finish, which it will soon be passed.
Here we are, then.
The man has arrived, the most wanted has come.
Go ahead with photos and news titles already made.
But not for Cesare Battisti.
This story I just wrote is about him.
The alleged heroic minister who has won again...

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The new wall

Stories and News No. 1147

Once upon a time there was a wall.
You remember it, right?
It come to light in August 1961.
Read also as the disgraceful echo of two shameful stains in History that affects us all directly, in flesh, blood and memory: the world wars.
Nonetheless, not the beginning, but the end of a conflict should teach something to the contenders, and especially the dead’s relatives.
That is not a wall, we are all witnesses and heirs of it.
Nonetheless, the line of suspicion and rivalry that separated Germany, and with it the world, in two necessarily opposing souls, it lived thirty years.
In fact, in November 1991, preceded in the previous year by a memorable concert, its destruction began.
However, it started just like that.
Because this is how the life of the most excruciating walls works, which find the best glue between bricks in the most visceral suffering.
They take shape in the short and when you least realize it you find yourself on the other side of your enemy, suddenly become such. By order from above, of course, always from above, do not be wrong about that. Because walls are like wars, they the weakest ones build and die for them, but the cynical project on paper is drawn up only by powerful pencils and hands.

However, reducing the terrible impact on our existence requires constant attention and perseverance, dedication and clarity on a daily basis.
They are like a flaming fire that becomes harmless embers to our noble breath, but nothing is enough, as only a new load of hatred and lies can be, to make them resurrected.
That's why today's tyrants are loudly shouting the need for new walls.
The truth is that they have started to build their bulwarks long before invoking them on the borders from the rest of the world, which they necessarily isolate themselves from, since they know no other way to relate to neighbors.
The barbed wire fence, or bricks, is only the definitive monument to be erected directly on the still open wound.
They have already separated us long ago, when they begin to claim the construction.
They always do it, they cannot do anything else. Poor against poor, in words, as in symbols. Army and police deployed against both, in uniforms as in posture. Close peoples against distant ones, in shared images, as in slogans and promised plans. And yet your god against mine, your science against my superstitions, your hope against my cynicism, your naive trust in humanity against my fear of everything and everyone.
The new wall will not be between the USA and Mexico, that is, it will not be the new one at all.
To be honest, it makes no sense to talk about old or even the opposite.
The wall has always been there, among us, kept alive day and night by those who will never be able to see us all as one.
For this reason, who has the belief that the latter is the only solution which will allow us to still exist, they must never stop, I repeat, never get up every morning and leave the house to throw down bricks and make leaking light and compassion between us.


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A love story

A love story

By

Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher

This is a love story.
Yes it is, if I think about it with the right attention and the best clarity.
It does yet.
Once upon a time there was a man called People.
He was a man like many.
Arrogant and awkward, often.
Confused, most of the time.
Vulnerable, despite appearances, and unpredictable, in every moment and each place.
However, like many others before, he was used to see his own mind defeated on the living field by emotions.
Especially from those that were not easy to name, and as much as he had felt in his life, live feeling always managed to find him unprepared.
Because every time the heart quivers and the belly trembles everything is always like new, it is written somewhere within the soul’s folds.
The moment that best demonstrated this assumption occurred when People met her.

Equality was a proud and very indipendent girl.
Beautiful as only the creatures who are not aware of their own attractiveness can be.
This is a precious quality, since those who ignore their talents save didn’t share their vanity with the world.
He was immediately in love with her, and did everything to get noticed and, above all, loved from her.
Nevertheless, he did as People do.
He raised his voice, he rang it, he praised her name and virtues, he ran away and then went back, he went down into the square and overwhelmed with arrogance and vulgarity every obstacle that dared to stand between him and the craved woman. Coming to idolize her as a goddess on earth, for whom to sacrifice everything except his own pride.
It was useless.
Everything seemed lost, when just at the moment when he did what People often did not, she noticed him: when he was silent, attentive to her words and her gestures, respectful of her times and her pauses, and more than anything else proving himself capable of remembering every detail, in addition to the precious essence, if required.
So, despite not as immediate, it became a mutual falling in love.
Those were good days, when everything was still possible.
Mark this time, if you live it in the real one, because it has a value that you will regret.
Nonetheless, the best was ahead.
“Smile People,” said Equality.
“Rejoice with me,” she added, “because soon you will be a father.”
That happiness joined them further in a hug that promised a happy future.
Until the expected gift arrived.
A child with the eyes of a never seen before kind, with hair of a never defined before shade, with skin of a hitherto unknown color.
“People,” said Equality unable to look away from the small creature to her chest, “we’ll call her Diversity.”
I do not know if it was the name itself, or the consistency with the appearance of the latter, but from that moment People began to move away from the wonderful family that he had helped to create.
Until going away from home, leaving the two without looking back.
All because of a belief, however crazy, or a delirium, however structured: you cannot love both, Equality and Diversity.
Although the latter is a former’s daughter, although they are blood of the same blood, and although this is the same for People.
I had said it at the beginning and I cannot help but reiterate it at the end.
This, ours, everybody’s, in spite of what the chronicles of the world might tell you, it is a love story.
The love for all that life entrusts us to care about.
Because only the latter, not reason or science, can help us stay united.
As one people, equal and at the same time diverse...

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Migrants do not exist

Stories and News No. 1146

Migrants do not exist.
The word does.
Migrants, only the latter, usually undeserving the article, let alone respect and empathy for those who just want a better life.
Because this is empathy, ladies and gentlemen, in the most trivial of meanings.
The ability to put yourself in the other's shoes, being able to understand that, in this accursed case, those people are desperately looking for what we all want.

Maybe this is the main problem.
Probably, this widespread mixture of foolishness and hatred does not arise only from ignorance and perhaps we all understand more than it seems.
Nonetheless, I repeat, migrants do not exist, they have never did for most of the inhabitants of this confused and divided world, except in the social vocabulary or inside a frustrated outburst at the end of a disappointing week.
Yes, this is what I firmly believe: we do nothing but play with words.
So here are the migrants of the modern populist leaders.
Here are the migrants feared and insulted by all types of politicians with votes earned on social networks.
Here are the migrants whose most of the inhabitants of this planet talks.
The truth is that they have never existed, like that.
I am referring to the mysterious and menacing creatures with strange skin or bizarre names, which feed on alien stuff and plot against us speaking with their incomprehensible language.
The fact is that they have never really been present in the intolerant people’s real life, but the same is for the average citizen who stands still at the edge of the discussion.
Because this means being there for someone.
It means looking in each other's eyes.
It involves carefully listening to the other's reasons.
Trying to know their emotions and feelings.
I do not say anybody, but at least one.
Only in that case you may enjoy an authoritative right and a worthy competence to speak about your foreigner neighbor.
Because you know him thoroughly.
For this reason, now, here, on this page, I challenge you.
At any level of the social hierarchy you raise your verbal walls, engaging in more or less intense talks on immigration, sentencing and condemning as judges around the destiny of millions of human lives, how many so-called migrants do you know? Have you ever let them entering your life?
How many are there inside world leaders’ life? And what about those who voted for these people believing in the border security’s lie?
I say zero or little more.
This is what I think and write without fear.
A deafening and embarrassing nothing.
But the chatter... lots of ravings and delusions hide the dry silences of this dull mass of alleged defenders of “their” country.
Foreigners, immigrants, illegal people, refugees have been and still today are nouns similar to the exotic picture on the wall in the living room to change the dull dinner with the usual friends.
They have become the most precious sets of letters which to fill their voids with.
However, at the end of the day, when the light goes out and the eyes close, they dissolve like falsities disguised as ghosts, because there was nothing under the dreaded white sheet.
These ghosts, that is, these migrants do not exist.
At the same time, what really existed is my father, who rests right on this earth, which welcomed him in the last century.
They existed before becoming the thousands of unlucky lives that every year disappear under the sea.
They are the 49 human beings whose fate depends at this precise moment on the governments that we have elected.
Despite this, we cannot change the past, but the choice for tomorrow is still mine and also yours and today it is at a crossroads.
Between words and people.
If only the first ones are enough to you, I am sorry for you and for those who will pay the consequences.
Otherwise, do as I do.
Get out, talk and listen, look with your own eyes and experience the world with your senses.
You will find out that, even in that case, migrants do not exist at all.
There is only us, everyone.
With a destiny to term and the much desired happiness on the common horizon.


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Looking for planets and words

Stories and News No. 1145

I like to go out.
Escaping from me, from here, every day.
I have to, and I am happy because I can.
Nonetheless, I'm not alone.
Looking for planets and words of a humanly fulfilled sense.
Now I am already flying and I am amazed, because I look and read that there is a world where an enormous country, full of green, nature and still pure creatures, fundamental for the existence of everything and everyone, is governed by a guy who promised to take every inch of the earth now occupied by the natives...

Jair Bolsonaro, Brazil's president

Nevertheless, the rest of the living beings, of every species harmoniously coherent with the universe, realizes the danger and stands compact to face him, forcing him to abandon his crazy intentions.
It is good for heart, but it's not enough to me.
Because it's all too logical to be true.
So I take a breath and blow air into the lungs that become wings and as a hopeful dirigible I trust the wind that still travels free.
I see it now, a world similar to the previous one, where at the head of an extraordinarily flourishing and colorful land there is a disturbing man, who is used to call terrorists those who risk their own lives to defend human rights.

Sônia Guajajara

In spite of this, the brute should not sleep well, since the other inhabitants over the border are aware that silence, turning the page, closing eyes and conscience before such attitudes means being accomplices.
Nobody could feel innocent, later.
So they talk to each other and, in short, take public and active position.
I smile, and the anguish decreases.
Yet, I think there is something excessively sensible to be real.
So I load the shoulder muscles and bring my hands back to give myself the usual push to the alternatives missing pieces on the horizon.
Be brave, I tell myself, and I'm not disappointed.
Because in the galaxy immediately next I find a planet where the most oxygen giver and best creative of colors and shapes nation has got as leader a guy who announced he wants to break the world's largest forest in two with a motorway, clearing and flattening it mercilessly.

Well, those are unacceptable propositions for the involved creatures, that is all of them.
In fact, thanks to a laborious but effective supportive communication, or intelligent use of social networks, they are all rushed to shield the common endangered wealth.
I exalt myself in front of such a demonstration of love for today, as for tomorrow, for themselves, as for the children who will come, in addition to those who already await a wise nod.
However, I have the distinct impression that the lights are too bright and the sharing of the noble intent has been too easy.
So, I watch the actors with a more careful eye, I listen again to the lines, and after a few moments I recognize the author.
It is the usual story.
Which I’m used to go out with.
To escape from myself, from this world, every day.
I cannot live without it, and I am grateful because I have the time to do it.
But I'm sure I'm not the only one looking for words and planets.
To make them once and for all look like this absurdity we call earth…

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The mathematics of the last ones

Stories and News No. 1144

Once upon a time, we were reading and counting.
How important these actions had been, so essential and unavoidable for every human purpose.
As much as they should be today, in spite of the bad squawking out there, with all due respect for the bird's call.
Read as well as the noise of the faceless crowd of artificially inflated number.
That is exactly the game I want to talk about, the trick is all there.
The deceptive words in one hand and the fake numbers in the other.
Hidden in the sleeves of both you may find an underrated heart and a forgotten conscience, the most reliable truth machine so far, looking somebody’s face.
Nonetheless, reading and counting, now seem outdated.
In today's world, you look and believe slogans, of course, but above all “their” numbers.
Where a brave woman as Patricia Okoumou, who climbed the Statue of Liberty to protest against an insensitive nation before the migration that is the very lymph of its existence, becomes the only one, punished to educate the many.

The world where governments do not get elected anymore with more or less maintained promises, but with social like’s and popularity subscriptions even before having replied the appropriate answers.
The world where inevitably and fortunately the infamous policy against refugees and even abortion leads you to remain alone, perhaps alongside Hungary, in front of the United Nations.

Nevertheless, where you are the most powerful and feared one, every calculation could be derisory.
If all this were not enough, the world where, repeating exactly some atrocious crimes of the past, the most fragile people in need of protection and support, like children, are marked with ignoble numbers.

However, you who rely on the inevitability of your inhumane formulas should know that where your greedy eye can not certainly arrive there is another kind of science.
The mathematics of the last ones.
History tells it, nature shows it, this is our theorem.
We divide the zero that you have left us in equal parts and that is how it becomes infinite.
We can only subtract, that is true, because you have all the sums, but you are not able to imagine how it is possible to defeat privations.
It's called resistance, it's an incorruptible axiom, and that's why in every century you make the mistake of underestimating it.
This is how what for you is little, for us it becomes everything.
Slowly, sure, without clamor, agreed.
But that's how we take ours back.
As the earth does, so do we.
As trampled snowflakes, forced to a steep existence, inexorably we make ourselves avalanche.
Like grains of dust thrown into the wind, we come back stronger than before.
Like martyr's drops of blood, we console each other.
This makes us real people, what you will never be.
Once upon a time, therefore, reading and counting.
For sure the day will come when you will be obliged to look away from the sacred trends of stock exchange to watch us with your naked eye and finally understand.
What does really means.
Being many...

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7-year-old Guatemalan girl at the border

Stories and News No. 1143

A 7-year-old girl from Guatemala died a few hours after being arrested on the US border.
She was dehydrated and in a state of shock...

Once upon a time there was a border and a girl child.
Read her also as a precious glow traveling to the new world, which is a wonderful planet, cruel, and fascinating, after all.
But it should be cursed, where it proves capable of dividing people on an imaginary line engraved on paper moved by fear of what matters most, for all of us, undeservedly called humans.
Look at her now, then, the young martyr portrayed on a horizon’s portion.
At the same time, watch the sacred edge on the other.
Do you understand what I mean? This is what defines the sense of the common journey, now, at this precise moment.
Among those who, for the survival of their children, throw behind the little that is all.
And who, to defend a tangle of barbed wire and pusillanimity, sacrifice all of that little love for the next one left in the heart.

In fact, there are mothers who renounce to youth and serenity, even just to give one more day to the precious fruit grown in the womb.
And others who think they care about their children, burning the migrant hopes.
There are fathers who would be able to walk the entire universe by feet, in order to find a place capable of welcoming their own living dreams, which they have given great eyes and an uncontrollable desire to open them.
But, at the same time, there are others so short-sighted of empathy and feelings to teach their own blood that the distance between peoples is worth more than the people themselves.
It is the current contradiction.
There are those who give birth to life offering the world.
And there are those who think of saving their future hiding the latter inside their wallet.
There are too many whose survival is daily repelled by the edges of a selfish existence.
And those who, when questioned, declare themselves unaware of the consequences of empty words, such as security and identity, patriot and national pride, purity and yes, borders.
Well, the latter are the favorite children of the so-called strong leader.
Because this is precisely what this guy, and his accomplice society, are doing, without realizing it.
After having baptized a wall with the blood of the poor of this century, nursed it with breasts full of hatred and nourished with obtuse lies and inhuman proclamations, they have entrusted their soldier with a killing task.
So that the frightened man in the shelter of his house ignores such ignoble deeds the ferocious guardian is making at the edge of the village.
Yet, nonetheless, even today, once upon a time a girl child lost on an overestimated line of invisible dust, whose significance depends on already made choices, and the still possible ones of all humanity.
Which is, willy-nilly, in the middle between only seven years of life and all the stories and the days, loves and sorrows, billions of simple moments and an unmissable, small handful of fragments which it is worth to be born for.
Because if our border will be an obstacle or a bridge between the present and the future.
It depends on us all...

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All in one night

All in one night

By

Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher

It is right.
There is something correct in all of this.
I mean, it must go like that, and it must be accepted too.
That's what I tried to explain to my children, when they learned I would have been at work, that night. I'm the last one, and also the youngest.
It’s your turn, they said.
It is, I obeyed.
Because this seems the sense of an already written destiny: you have to welcome and get the best out of what comes.
The kids did not like it and they made me feel it in every possible way.
My wife has given her best to do the opposite, but I already know that she has suffered even more, for a thousand other reasons.
Among them, the fact that we are waiting for a third prince, who is a princess, and we are just a month before the race’s end.
Besides recently we have moved in a new house, everything is unknown, from the neighborhood to the neighbors.
When the world sounds foreign and unusual you need to have the people you care most for on your side.
Nevertheless, I tried to reassure them on my return the next day. We would have been fine as never before, I promised.
Well, is not everyone's desire, inscribed on the common horizon?

So, I went to the police station in the late afternoon and I started my shift.
After enjoying a quick sandwich for dinner, my colleague and I had our first meeting.
One of them.
Brown skin, gray beard, shabby clothes and above all a blank expression, sometimes absent.
The man wandered with two plastic bags full of rags on the middle of the street, the reason for the detention, in addition to the usual absence of a regular identification paper.
The guy, being in a serious state of confusion, is not able to answer the questions, my concise conclusion.
Then, I close the cell.
Who knows where he comes from, asked the colleague, also a novice.
Who he really is, this is the answer we both do not search for.
Because it is not our job, they say.
But, after all, is there a profession that has the task of understanding who we really are?
I did not have time to lose myself in further pindaric flights because the favorite number on the cellphone activated the ringtone.
It was nice to talk with children and wife, but also poignant.
I sensed the tears behind the words, and at the same time I felt mine outcropping from the heart.
Yes, I know, sometimes I feel excessively melancholy.
The truth is that when I was young I wanted to be a romantic poet, but then the crisis, the family layoffs, and here I am following the paternal advice: the uniform can feed you, rhymes not, my dad sentenced one day among the most bitter.
Anyway, later we received our second visit.
A girl from Eastern Europe, I think, found semi fainted on a road usually marked by the presence of prostitutes.
The succinct clothes confirm this hypothesis, I wrote about it on the report. And, as for the previous case, I noted the difficulty in finding information on the identity of the woman, who mumbled nonsensical phrases.
Nevertheless, another cell was closed.
At that moment I took advantage of the colleague’s generosity and the cake prepared by her mother.
It was a minute to midnight, everything was calm while we were enjoying the dessert.
Strange taste, I thought, sweet on the palate and quite the opposite where the aftertaste of living is grasped.
A few seconds into the new day and the buzzer on the phone invited me to read my wife's wishes.
I replied with all the little hearts and smiles I could draw.
At the stroke of midnight we heard the cry.
That is, the third and final meeting of that strange day.
We both ran at the police headquarters entrance and we saw the screaming bundle.
The few months baby, visibly oriental, was wrapped in a cover inside a cardboard box, was the brief description of the scene and the related report.
We immediately brought him in and my colleague, despite having no children, with remarkable skill took him in her arms and began to calm him sitting next to the hot radiator.
This was my work shift, I told the next morning to family and relatives joined for the ritual lunch.
It all happened in one night.
That is, it was the time for everything that happens in each moment, but it escapes us, beyond the confines of the reassuring personal picture.
Like the Christmas night.
It is wrong.
There is something wrong in all this.
I mean, it should not go like that and it should never be accepted without asking questions, avoiding protest or just discussing.
Because it is a special day, this, I tried to explain to my loved ones sitting around the full table just before exchanging gifts.
But I see the beautiful crib that we have placed next to the tree, the cave, Mary, Joseph and the Baby, and the more I think of those three wretched lives on the just passed night.
There is something right in celebrating the blessed events, we must be happy with what we have when we have it, because it is not always like this, I have no doubts about that.
But there is also something terribly wrong, underneath.
Maybe, when the parties will be over, we all should do something about it...

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Trump vs immigrants: the movie

Stories and News No. 1142

Once upon a time a movie’s writing process.
Imagine the scene like a film too.
As if we were properly all in a movie.
The room is the classic one of a film producer, with the desk covered with paperwork, the posters on the walls and some prizes on the shelf.
Nothing too elegant and glittering, we are not talking about an announced box office breach.
But not even a more or less witty B-movie, despite the scarce money.
Imagine a medium-quality work, which should be good for the average people, in order to give them what they want and need.
Well, this is the trailer’s message for the kind of movie where promotion is everything.
Nonetheless, the writer is trying to convince the money lender about the script.
For the record, we are half of the latter.
Oops, I forgot the title: Migrants.

"So let's recap," says the producer, "the protagonist finally managed to get elected as government leaders, right?"
"Right."
"How does the plot goes on, then?"
"You know… that's the problem. The first part was easy."
"Do you mean the one about the electoral campaign?"
"Yeah, I wrote it without thinking."
"I saw."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, let's move on."
"Easy to say..."
The man who pays the bills, which moreover has much more experience than the other, moves the bust forward and he is about to speak with a paternalistic tone.
"Listen, let’s be clear about that: what is the program’s essence that allowed the guy to grab the decisive votes?"
The writer thinks about it for a brief moment, but nothing more, because the query is really trivial.
"Voting him people would have elected the normal citizen instead of the usual politicians and would have kick the illegal immigrants off."
"So, is really this what happened?"
"In the movie, do you mean?"
"Of course, but let’s be honest, at least among us."
"The truth is that the man is anything but an ordinary citizen, he’s a rich and powerful guy. Indeed, regarding the immigrants, it is well explained in the movie that he succeeds in convincing the voters thanks to a capillary media system, especially social networks, which spreads endlessly tons of lies and manipulations about immigration. "
"That's right. And what does all this bring us? "
"He won thanks to lies?"
"It seems obvious to me, isn’t it? You wrote the movie, am I wrong?"
"No, you're not."
"Well, you’re not the first writer that I had to educate, believe me. On the other hand, I always had the last word and do you know what it is?"
"No, but I am convinced you’re about to tell me."
"My signature on the check, young blood."
"I see."
"So, speaking of the movie, the creative stalemate doesn’t concern if he is or not a common citizen, one of the people, one of them, because they still believe that, even because he often makes clamorous gaffes and says embarrassing things, and everyone feels reassured."
"It's true!"
"Of course it is. The real problem is about the immigration."
"Why?"
"Simple. Because that's the bigger lie."
"I see..."
"On the other hand, the introductory part of your movie is clear. The country which the guy lives in has enormous and unresolved issues such as the bad infrastructures from east to west that put the population at risk everyday, corruption at every level, an unacceptable number of homeless, to name a few. All of that and much more, before talking about the alleged problem of illegal immigrants, who are of a modest number before other nations of comparable value. "
"He's right, there are no illegal immigrants..."
"There are, but they are not as many as was lied. Now, if the movie will be a successful one, as I hope, we have to draw a final that prepares the sequel."
"You mean..."
"Yes, I mean the next election. People cannot see that illegal immigrants are much less. Finally, even the opposition could realize it..."
"I found!"
"Good, tell me, I'm curious."
"Well, in order to get elected the man who aspired to lead the country exaggerated the real amount of illegal citizens. Once elected – having the power, he must do nothing but create illegal immigrants where there are not."
"How could he do it?"
"Easy as it is logical: implementing a repressive treatment of the migratory phenomenon, approving laws that seriously undermine the human rights of asylum seekers and migrants with the effect of increasing the number of people in a state of irregularity."
"Great! Is it a your idea?"
"No, I was inspired by reality..."


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